Ariella woke up to the sound of a scream.
It wasn’t hers—though it easily could have been.
It was a sharp, jagged sound that cut through the heavy silence of the master suite, followed by the wet thud of something hitting stone far below the balcony.
She sat up abruptly, the dark fur blankets sliding down her chest.
She was wearing a black silk slip that Elle must have dressed her in after the bath, the fabric feeling like a cool, mocking caress against her skin.
Her body felt heavy, her muscles humming with a strange, residual heat that wasn’t quite gone.
The “Burning” had settled into a low, thrumming vibration in the marrow of her bones.
She scrambled out of the bed, her feet hitting the cold stone floor, and rushed to the floor-to-ceiling glass.
The rain had turned into a thick, gray mist that clung to the jagged cliffs of Ironfang.
Below, in the central courtyard—a brutalist expanse of cracked concrete and rusted iron—a group of wolves had gathered.
They weren’t in uniform.
They were dressed in scavenged leather, tactical gear, and heavy furs.
In the center of the circle, a body lay twisted.
One of the Ironfang enforcers was wiping a bloodied knuckle-duster on his thigh.
“Weakness is a choice,” a voice drifted up, amplified by the wind.
Ariella pressed her forehead against the glass.
This wasn’t Black Ridge.
At home, everything was polished, hidden behind security contracts and corporate facades.
Here, the violence was naked.
It was the law of the Fracture.
“It’s not a pleasant sight for a morning, is it?”
Ariella spun around.
A man stood in the doorway of the bedroom.
He wasn’t Grimshaw.
He was younger, perhaps in his late twenties, with hair the color of spun silver and eyes that were a startling, piercing blue.
He was leaning against the doorframe, twirling a silver-topped cane between his fingers with the grace of a ballroom dancer.
He wore a tailored gray waistcoat over a crisp white shirt, looking entirely too refined for a place that smelled like pine and old blood.
“Who are you?” Ariella snapped, her hand instinctively going to the collar of her slip.
“Silas,” the man said, offering a shallow bow that felt more like a taunt.
“Chief Beta of the Ironfang Pack.
And you must be the ginger-headed wildfire that jumped out of a moving Raptor last night.
I must say, the rumors didn’t do the hair justice.
It’s quite…
vibrant.”
“Where is Grimshaw?”
“The Alpha is busy,” Silas said, stepping into the room.
He walked with a slight limp, the silver cane clicking rhythmically against the floor.
Click.
Click.
Click.
“There was a breach at the Eastern Wall last night. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
A Siphoner scout tried to get too close to our perimeter.
As you saw in the courtyard, the guards who were on duty and failed to catch him are being…
re-educated.”
Ariella’s stomach turned.
“You kill your own people for a mistake?”
“We aren’t a pack, Ariella.
We are a fortress,” Silas replied, his blue eyes narrowing.
“In the Fracture, a mistake isn’t a reprimand.
It’s an invitation for the Rogues to come in and eat our hearts.
We don’t have the luxury of mercy.”
A small, bird-like girl suddenly darted into the room from behind Silas.
She couldn’t have been more than nineteen, her hair a chaotic nest of braids decorated with copper wires and small bones.
She moved with a twitchy, hyperactive energy, her nose constantly wrinkling as if she were tasting the air.
“She smells like lightning,” the girl whispered, circling Ariella with wide, frantic eyes.
“Silas, she smells like the sky before it breaks.
Is she the one?
The Dilution?”
“Mina, manners,” Silas chided, though he didn’t stop her.
“Ariella, this is Mina.
Our lead scout.
If you ever try to jump out a window again, she’ll be the one to catch you before you hit the ground.”
Mina stopped in front of Ariella, her head tilting at a sharp, unnatural angle.
“You won’t jump.
The Ash-Walker wouldn’t like it.
He’s already grumpy about the scouts.”
Ariella froze.
“The Ash-Walker?
The Rogue from the woods?”
Silas’s expression shifted—just a fraction.
The polished mask stayed, but his grip on the silver cane tightened.
“Mina has a big mouth.
The Ash-Walker is a ghost story, child.
A boogeyman the rogues use to scare pack-wolves.”
“He wasn’t a ghost story three nights ago,” Ariella challenged.
“He was real, I saw him with my own eyes—actually a glimpse.
He fought with my brothers.
He stood in the snow and—”
“And then you fainted,” Silas interrupted smoothly.
“And Alpha Grimshaw ‘rescued’ you from your charming little family.
That is the official report.
The Council doesn’t like ghosts.”
The lie was so blatant it was insulting.
Ariella opened her mouth to argue, but the door opened again, and the atmosphere in the room changed instantly.
The temperature seemed to drop, the air growing heavy with the scent of a growing storm.
Grimshaw stepped inside.
He was in full Alpha mode today—heavy black combat boots, dark trousers, and a black tactical shirt that strained against his chest.
The bite mark on his shoulder was a dark, angry purple, a permanent brand he hadn’t bothered to hide.
“Out,” Grimshaw said.
One word.
No heat, just a command that vibrated in the floorboards.
Mina vanished instantly, scurrying past him like a frightened squirrel.
Silas took his time, his silver cane clicking one last time as he met Grimshaw’s gaze.
“She’s feisty, Boss,” Silas murmured as he passed.
“Try not to let her burn the Spire down.”
When the door shut, the room felt impossibly small.
Grimshaw didn’t move.
He stood by the door, watching Ariella with an intensity that made her feel like she was standing in the path of an oncoming train.
“You’re awake,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
“Hard to sleep with the sound of people being murdered in your backyard,” she retorted, crossing her arms.
“Is that what you brought me here for?
To watch you play god with a bunch of outcasts?”
Grimshaw walked toward her.
He didn’t stop until he was in her personal space, his heat radiating off him in waves.
He smelled like gunpowder and cold rain.
“I brought you here because you’re mine,” he said, reaching out to tilt her chin up.
“And because if I hadn’t, you’d be a pile of bones in a Siphoner’s ritual pit by now.”
“I don’t care,” she hissed, jerking her face away.
“I want to go back.
Not to Black Ridge.
To school.
I have a life, Grimshaw.
I have a degree I’m three months away from finishing.
You can’t just delete me.”
Grimshaw’s eyes darkened, the charcoal swirling with something that looked suspiciously like amusement.
“Atlas already withdrew you.
You’re no longer a student.”
What; she thought.
Atlas did what?